


The Pool Interlude

by TaleWorthTelling



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Steve knows what to do at a party, gratuitous use of pool cues as innuendo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 18:15:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4029796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaleWorthTelling/pseuds/TaleWorthTelling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has also considered the possibility that it’s the angles of Steve’s back distracting him. The way he leans over when he’s taking a shot, the way his muscles shift under his too small shirt, the way his shoulders tip back into the wall when he’s waiting for his turn. Sam can sense a pretty picture, too.</p><p>He’s not even going to touch the fact that Steve’s hands play up and down the pool cue like he doesn’t even notice. Because Sam’s noticed, and it’s just too damn much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pool Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> Just a happy little scene where Sam and Steve have a good time.

The thing is, Steve is a damn pool shark. All that sweet, innocent Captain America bullshit that’s sprung up on the Internet since Steve broke Tumblr with his pretty face and aw shucks grin … it makes every bit of crassness, cursing, and filth that spills from his lips just this side of shocking, but also incredibly satisfying. It’s kind of fun, actually, getting used to it, being in on the secret and trying not to smirk too hard when Steve’s working out his public image muscles with some unsuspecting person. But Sam will never get over consistently getting his ass kicked at pool. That was his _thing_ , back in the day.

“It’s the angles,” Steve always says. “Trajectories, math. I can breathe that. What do you think I spend all that time throwing around?” And other times he says that he’s always been naturally attuned toward such things, good visual perception, natural grasp of geometry and how things fit together in a space, how they move, how to depict that on paper by first understanding it. That’s all well and good. That’s cool. Man’s got skills, Sam respects that.

Sam has also considered the possibility that it’s the angles of Steve’s back distracting him. The way he leans over when he’s taking a shot, the way his muscles shift under his too small shirt, the way his shoulders tip back into the wall when he’s waiting for his turn. Sam can sense a pretty picture, too.

He’s not even going to touch the fact that Steve’s hands play up and down the pool cue like he doesn’t even notice. Because Sam’s noticed, and it’s just too damn much.

Just. Really now. He _has_ to know what he’s doing. It’s too obvious. And Steve’s just _that_ kind of fucker.

But he smiles like he’s just a friendly guy enjoying a game, and Sam has a good laugh about that because lots of people fall for it.

Not Sam, though. Sam doesn’t fall for the smile. He’s already fallen for Steve.

So what the hell. Even the odds, maybe. 

The party’s in full swing and no one will notice, really, so he doesn’t even look around too much when he sidles up behind Steve. He can tell that Steve knows he’s there; guy can probably hear a fly land across the room, feel the air currents flutter and vibrate. (Sam tested this, once, with Steve blindfolded, hands gently bound behind him, more a suggestion than an actual impediment, and he stayed behind him the whole time, walking back and forth, in and out of range. Teasing him, touching him faintly, breathing into his neck. Eventually, eventually, giving in, giving him what he wanted. Lord, that was a fun night. Almost as good as when Steve got him back for it. He still shivers in satisfaction thinking about that.)

But he doesn’t react, just keeps lining up his shot. Maybe he tips his hips up a little more than necessary.

“Yknow, Cap, you lean much farther over that table, you’re gonna leave a Steve Rogers shaped imprint. Probably sign it and call it art.” He lays a palm across Steve’s back, the warm expanse of muscle below his shoulders reassuring to the touch. And he maybe, just a bit, leans into Steve’s hip. It’s innocent, if you believe the unbelievable straight face he’s keeping.

“Ms. Potts has been trying to get me into that modern art,” Steve says, voice light, eyes dark. So he’s noticed. He makes like he’s adjusting his shot, thinking, but really he grinds back into Sam, upping the ante.

“If the world only knew what an art snob you are.” 

When Steve snorts his shoulders rise and fall, sliding Sam’s hand farther down. Sam’s starting to wonder whether Steve’s noticed that he hasn’t actually hit the cue ball yet when the cue slips back, back, ready to break, and it’s sliding low along his hip. And then pulls forward, almost gently.

“You making love to the balls, Steve?” he asks, watching them rolling every which way. “’Cause that looks like foreplay.”

“I do love foreplay.” He rolls his body back up and does that thing, the one where he half-smirks and turns his head toward Sam but not his body. He holds out the cue.

“Nah, man, still your turn.”

Steve gives him a look that clearly says he doesn’t think Sam will get a turn at all if Steve keeps going because Steve will sink every ball on the table, and he’d rather watch Sam.

Sam huffs unflatteringly, but he takes the cue and walks around the table to line up a shot. He can do some impressive shit, too. For a couple of shots he’s concentrating on the game, showing Steve up, but then he relaxes into the rhythm of it and maybe, just maybe, adds a little twist to his wrist where there doesn’t necessarily, for sporting reasons, need to be one.

And when he looks up, Steve is staring hard, cool and appraising and almost a poker face but for the flush rising up his neck. And the subtle bulge of the beginning of a hard-on. That’s kind of a giveaway.

“I didn’t know pool got you hard,” Sam murmurs lowly, trying not to be overheard but also not caring too much either way.

“Everything does,” Steve says, shrugging, as if they don’t both know that it’s not the felt and the clicking balls getting him going. “But I’ve heard of stranger predilections.”

“You want a turn? You might not get one, I keep up this hot streak.” He pauses, pretending to consider. “Is it really a streak if I’m always hot? I’m just that good.”

“My turn?” Steve asks, looking up and over his shoulder.

Toward the hall leading to several nice, shiny, particularly spacious bathrooms.

“Don’t you think they’ll miss Captain America?” Sam jokes. “It is an Avengers party. Be kind of rude.”

“I’m off the clock.”

That’s all the convincing Sam needs before Steve is taking his hand and leading him away from the crowd, stopping only once when someone looks like they’re thinking of stopping him to talk by looking over his shoulder at Sam and pretending to continue a very serious discussion about the importance of motorcycle maintenance.

“You can lecture me about the importance of safety first the next time you get out of a fight with your helmet intact and strapped to your head,” he responds, even though it’s already worked, they’re halfway there and no one’s in the way.

Steve gets him into the empty, half-dark hallway and turns, pressing him up against the wall. “Can I trade my victory lecture for some other reward?”

Sam laughs, plants his mouth on Steve’s, and leads him to the bathroom himself. No one will miss them for a few minutes.

**Author's Note:**

> Definitely based on [this ](http://romy7.tumblr.com/post/118728106896/pool-players-do-it-with-stroke) (link NSFW) and the observation that Sam and Steve did have a scene like this together in the movie. I could have sworn this was how it went, right? No? Maybe in the deleted scenes, then. ;)


End file.
